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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24616429">as long as you need</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ironic_Swag7782/pseuds/Ironic_Swag7782'>Ironic_Swag7782</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Caretaking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, M/M, Season/Series 02, Shippy Gen, Sickfic, Whump, because of course it is its me, it really depends how you read it</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:54:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,391</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24616429</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ironic_Swag7782/pseuds/Ironic_Swag7782</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The heating breaks at the Magnus Institute, in the middle of winter. While there’s a delay in fixing it, Jon doesn’t actually notice until he’s almost passed out at his desk.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood, Martin Blackwood &amp; Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>468</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>as long as you need</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hypothermia is a very good trope and I like it a lot. As is my style this is unedited and posted in the am hours. Enjoy! Or don't. I can't tell you what to do.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>January is, as usual, cold, bitter and boring. He’s back at work on the second of January, and it shows his age that he feels okay and sober. Ten years ago he’d probably still be nursing a killer hangover, but his new years this year consisted of watching the fireworks at midnight, calling Georgie (and The Admiral, of course), and going to bed at twenty-past-midnight. He hears, from the break room, that Martin and Sasha’s new years were no more exciting than his. Even if Tim, by his own admission, was still drunk from his apparent bender. Just about adds up. </p>
<p>The cold was the first thing he’d noticed this morning, but as the day went on he grew more accustomed to the chill settling in his bones. Admittedly, it did affect him when his joints cramped and froze up, but holding a cup of tea passed to him by Martin helped, he found. </p>
<p>He realises, three hours into the day at noon, that Martin had definitely been making more tea than usual. Five mugs had made their way into his office, two of which had been drunk from and not finished. Not that he’s complaining, his hands had gone numb a long time ago and he was grateful for the warm-up, but even he has to admit he’s curious. </p>
<p>His plan was to approach Martin in the breakroom, feigning nonchalance by washing his cups at the same time – it’s perfect. Until the breakroom is empty aside from Tim. Who glares at him and his five mostly-full mugs. </p>
<p>Fully, uncomfortably, aware of Tim’s eyes on his back, he tips all the tea down the sink and fills the sink with water. Cold, he realises, once he’s back at his office. The fairy liquid makes his skin sting, but it’s all they’ve got, so he puts that in and starts washing the cups. </p>
<p>“Have you seen Martin?” Jon eventually asks. </p>
<p>“Talking to Elias about the heating, boss.” Tim tells him. </p>
<p>“The heating?” </p>
<p>“Haven’t you felt it? It’s broken, been broken since December, apparently.” </p>
<p>“Oh. Well – keep me updated, I suppose.” </p>
<p>Tim nods and Jon takes that as his cue to go back to his office, lunch-less and without a cup of tea. A bummer, he thinks, but if he has to stand in the breakroom kitchen with Tim, trying to discreetly scratch his pockmarked scars, the guilt might crush him. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He gets wrapped up in work. He takes statement after statement, barely even blinking between recordings. It doesn’t seem to get any colder, but it doesn’t get warmer either. Gritting his teeth seems to, for the most part, halt the shivering and stop it being heard on the tape, but there’s not much he can do the numbness in his hands or how utterly exhausted he feels. </p>
<p>He’s in the middle of resting his eyes, head in his arms on his desk, between statements when someone knocks at the door, coming in when he tells them to. </p>
<p>“Martin, when the door’s shut --” He doesn’t need to look behind him to know who it is, the image of Martin carrying in a mug of tea is so ingrained into his mind he can picture it clear as day. </p>
<p>“I know, you’re making a statement, but your door’s been shut since lunch, and you told us to keep you updated about the heating… so…” Martin, when Jon turns to look at him, is dressed in a thick coat and scarf, and carrying a cup in his hand. “Christ, are you alright? Are you cold?” </p>
<p>“I’m fine, thank you,” Jon really, really regrets not bringing any coat other than his cardigan. “What’s happening with the heating?” </p>
<p>“Oh. They’re getting someone in to fix it, but it’ll be on Monday. Sorry, Jon, I tried to talk to Elias but…” Martin clears his throat, and looks like he’s dangerously close to fussing over him. “Are you sure you’re alright? You look…” </p>
<p>“Martin, I have a lot of statements to get through.” </p>
<p>“No, right, got it. I’ll leave you alone,” Martin starts to push the door shut behind him as he leaves, but pauses, and adds, “There is a blanket in the archives, if you want it.” </p>
<p>He shuts the door behind him, and the room suddenly feels so much colder. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The second time Martin comes around, he’d actually drunk the whole mug of tea and had given up making anymore statements, because he can hardly get the words out or open his eyes. He doesn’t hear Martin knocking or even him coming in, until he’s kneeling in front of Jon, a warm hand on his back. Jon manages to get his eyes open long enough to take in Martin’s face, concerned and asking him something, clearly trying to keep the panic out of his voice. </p>
<p>“It’s alright, Jon, we’re going to call an ambulance --”</p>
<p>“No, no ambulance.” Jon struggles to sit up, Martin rushing to help him sit upright with both his hands on Jon’s shoulders. “Please don’t call an ambulance. It’s not that bad.” </p>
<p>“Jon…” </p>
<p>“Please.” </p>
<p>Martin doesn’t look happy about it, but he eventually puts his phone away with a sigh. </p>
<p>“Okay,” Martin glances at Jon uncertainly. “Okay. No ambulance. You’re going home, though. It’s almost five anyway. Did you even eat lunch?” </p>
<p>“…No.” </p>
<p>Martin’s face takes on a sad sort of pity smile, which makes Jon’s stomach twist anxiously. </p>
<p>“Okay, Tim’s going to call you a taxi --” Jon pretends he doesn’t hear Tim grumbling from the other room. “--I’ll make sure you get home alright, yeah?” </p>
<p>Jon, lacking the strength to argue, lets Martin help him off his desk chair and into the breakroom, where he sits him down on one of the dining chairs with the blanket he’d mentioned earlier. Watching Martin putter around in the kitchen feels domestic, almost too personal, especially the way Martin moves on seeming muscle-memory. </p>
<p>“Here, take my coat, too.” Martin pulls his own coat off, wrapping it round Jon’s shoulder under the blanket. Jon wants to protest, wants to tell Martin to stop bloody caring so much, but he just can’t quite get the words out. </p>
<p>“Sorry if you’re sick of tea – I even thought of drinking some of Tim’s coffee, but decided against it… But it’s nice to hold something warm in your hands, right?” Martin says, seemingly in an attempt to fill the awkward silence. </p>
<p>When Martin passes him the mug, they make eye contact for a brief second. </p>
<p>“Jon – why didn’t you say anything? I mean – we would’ve… You didn’t have to suffer alone, right?” </p>
<p>“I had a lot of work --” Jon starts. </p>
<p>“But… we were just next door, Jon,” Martin keeps looking at him like that, like he cares so damn much and means it. “Next time, if there is a next time, please just ask one of us. Any of us, god, even Tim, none us would ignore you.” </p>
<p>“I don’t know about that.”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t let him.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Martin refuses to let Jon pay for the taxi, but does let Jon give him a few pounds from the dresser. He sets Jon down on the sofa – he’d frowned when Jon had said not the bed, but not argued – and expressed concern at the lack of tinned food in Jon’s cupboards. Eventually he settles on some leftover soup. </p>
<p>“The NHS website says it’s probably mild hypothermia, and we probably don’t need to call an ambulance but if you do get any worse I will call them,” Martin says, sticking his head out from the kitchen. “Promise me you’ll keep an eye on yourself? You’ll rest?” </p>
<p>Jon deadpans a look at Martin, choosing to let his face speak for himself. </p>
<p>“Don’t give me that look, Jon.” Martin retorts. </p>
<p>With the soup, tea and blanket safely either on Jon or near him, Martin stands in the doorframe of the kitchen, glancing at the time and says; </p>
<p>“Okay. I’ll go home, but if you need anything --”</p>
<p>“Yes, Martin, I have your number, the phone’s charged, I will call you.” </p>
<p>“Good. Alright,” Martin breathes. “You know --”</p>
<p>“You could stay if you wanted --” Jon says at the same time as Martin. </p>
<p>“Alright. I’ll stay,” Martin eventually says. “As long as you need me to.” </p>
<p>“Okay.” </p>
<p>Jon falls asleep to Martin’s hand on his, like he wouldn’t notice, and he’s there. At the moment, that’s all he cares about.</p>
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